


Paper Chains

by spontaneite



Series: Paper Cranes [2]
Category: Hikaru no Go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 02:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12571344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spontaneite/pseuds/spontaneite
Summary: Extra scenes, alternate perspectives, and other such things from the universe of Paper Cranes.





	Paper Chains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place: Latter section of Chapter 19 - Yokohama, Friday 31st October 2003, sometime after 3am.
> 
> Warnings for: blood, mind control, possession, confusion, horror

_“Keiji,”_ Breathed his old friend, again and again. _“It’s worse than I thought.”_

He couldn’t get it out of his head.

The memory of the eyes – wide and shocked and terrified – was just as persistent as the _words:_ “ _Keiji…I’m sorry.”_

 _I’m sorry_ rang again and again, rang like temple bells. He resisted the urge to clutch at his head, and stood silently, watching red run in rivulets down the drain. Water was warm on his skin, and the damned _words_ wouldn’t leave his head. _It’s worse than I thought_ was exhaled from the walls, the _tiles_ , and everything was the colour of blood.

Why had he said it? What was the meaning of the apology? What was the meaning of the blood on his hands? What was the purpose of it all?

His hands, his face, his clothes…he glanced dizzily to the side, and found his old enemy resting lightly against the bathroom wall, sheathed. He wasn’t sure how it had come to be there, but…

“You…should not be red.” Keiji murmured, confused, without expectation of a reply. The demon’s presence was a passive darkness, as always, but its body…it was drenched in crimson. That...was not usual. Not…correct.

 _I must clean it,_ he thought, hands moving unbidden to retrieve the sword. It was wet with life – even the sheath was sodden – and the bare blade was _dripping_ when he exposed it, even now. When had he become so cavalier as to leave a blade in this condition?

He had to clean it.

Keiji left the shower on and stepped haltingly from the bathroom, tracking water over the floors and scattering blood like raindrops from his fingertips. How could he have forgotten to clean his weapon? How could he have been so careless?

 _Careless_ pulsed in his thoughts like a living thing, nightmare-red and whispering _it’s worse than I thought,_ and _I’m sorry._

Words ran through his mind without meaning as he mechanically sat to clean the blade. _I was so careless_ , he thought, without comprehension, fingers numb and clumsy on the blade. Inevitably, he stumbled. The killing edge cut a line on the side of his thumb, the blade so keen that it didn’t even hurt. He watched the droplet of blood fall onto cold steel with detached interest, thinking _my blood should not touch this blade_ all the while he failed to care very much. It was only one more drop to clean away, after all.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. It…felt like he was suffocating. Like he was on a high mountain, with the air so thin and evasive that he could never… _quite…_ catch enough…

Silently, Keiji sheathed the blade, satisfied with its cleanliness, and got to work on the rest. He breathed again, carefully, and confirmed that his lungs were working perfectly well. Why, then, this suffocating pressure? Why the urgency, the readiness for battle?

 _It’s worse than I thought,_ Katsuo had said.

His fingers paused over the ofuda. They were soaked through, and entirely red. He would have to take them off, of course. It only made sense – they were of no use in this condition. He went to pluck at one, and then paused with confusion, finding his hand still and tense and unwilling to move further. _No,_ he thought, without knowing why. It _did_ need to be removed, though, so why…?

Keiji put down the sword, arms trembling as though he had undertaken some monumental effort. He was so _tired._

But he hadn’t finished his job, yet. There was still work left to do. He still had to remove those ofuda, had to clean-

No.

He stopped, finding his hand outstretched and reaching for the blade again. He withdrew it, thinking _no._ He stood, legs shaking horribly, and leaned against the wall all the way down to the house shrine, where he kept his ofuda. He always made certain to keep a stock, made certain to pay respects to Hachiman every few days, it was _important_ to be careful, vigilant, watchful…

 _It’s worse than I thought,_ Keiji remembered, ears ringing, as he suppressed the urge to weep. _I’ve been so careless,_ he thought, distantly. _Careless,_ but…how? Why? It was so _difficult_ to think, and there was something he was forgetting. Something very important.

His fingers closed around the ofuda, growing more steady as they did. He breathed, in focused patterns, as if he were meditating, and walked back to tend to his blade. It took an uncommonly long time to place the ofuda. He kept… _pausing_ , blinking out of some strange trance to find that his hand had withdrawn, and having to reach out again. _Caution_ pressed at him, an old companion, and he pushed on, closing the paper around the sword’s sheath with an explosive sigh, fingers trembling with effort. That done, he could remove the bloody ofuda safely, and…

…there was _something_ , something very wrong with all of this…

Keiji stared at the red paper, stared at the trails of bloody water he’d left on his tatami. Why so much? Why had it happened? Why the cut of steel across an old friend’s throat? Why the _apology?_

 _“Keiji…I’m sorry.”_ Katsuo had whispered, a choked sound, choked out around blood and steel, and _why?_ Why in _hell’s name_ would he _apologise_?

 _He tried to kill you_ came the thought, sudden and unbidden. Keiji blinked, started and confused. Blinked, and tried to think _no, he would never_

 _He tried to kill you,_ repeated his thoughts, and…he felt so _numb._ Katsuo...

_Why else would he apologise? Why else would he bring his own steel?_

He tried to think _sparring_ , and _old friend,_ and _fellow master_ , but all he could manage was _excuse to bring weapon._ They had been _sparring_ , sparring with live steel, and Katsuo…had tried to kill him? It had been a ruse to take him off-guard, to murder?

There was _so much_ wrong with this – why had they been sparring at a shrine? Why would he ever use the demon blade in a spar? But… _Katsuo tried to kill me_ , he thought, brokenly. His old friend… _Katsuo, why?_

 _“I’m sorry,_ ” Katsuo had said, and _“it’s worse than I thought.”_

The words rang, rang, rang. Foreboding cut sharply, like the taste of metal on his tongue.

 _Expectation,_ Keiji read in those words. _Purpose. Planning._

_Someone told him to come._

Slowly, things he hadn’t been able to remember before trickled deliberately back into clarity. Katsuo had led him to a shrine of Hachiman, in the dead of night, insisting that he was in need of purification...he had tried other things, before he resorted to steel. He couldn’t _remember_ , but…

_Someone lied to him. Someone turned him against me._

He had…what? Thought Keiji lost to his demon, despite the care he took? Despite the care he had been taking for _years?_ How _could_ he? How could he draw killing steel against his own friend?

 _Old friend,_ he knew, but that old friend had drawn on him, and he had _reacted._

 _I’m sorry,_ Keiji thought, remembering the gaping red smile of a cut throat, and he couldn’t tell if it was memory or his own words, slipping past his lips, slipping into the air. He couldn’t see beyond the blood, couldn’t hear beyond the ringing in his ears and the words _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…_

Rage slithered, insidiously, through the numb haze around his mind.

_Someone told him to come. Someone lied to him. Someone made this happen._

**_…Who?_ **

Keiji remembered, in a stark flash of clarity, a young, impudent boy. A young and impudent creature with the worst soul-wounds he’d ever encountered, who had believed him possessed and refused to hear otherwise, who had turned his own student against him.

 _Utagawashi had Katsuo’s contact details,_ he recalled, a red fury building.

Foolish, _foolish_ boy. Impudent and spiteful and _forsworn._

 _Your lies have cost me one of my dearest friends,_ Keiji thought, and felt shadows settle into his veins. Still, though, he breathed. Banked the building flames.

The fool was only a child. Only a child, who doubtlessly had suffered awfully for his wounds. A miserable, prideful child with a shockingly powerful soul, who hadn’t _listened_ , who was risking everyone with his refusal to be taught. _A child who was already responsible for one death,_ his thoughts hissed at him, and the fury threatened to dizzy him again-

 _Only a child_ , Keiji reminded himself, clamping down on the trembling rage, the froth of murderous grief. _Only a child; but he must learn, before he causes any more misfortune._ And if the boy were possessed, what then? What chaos could a malefic spirit wreak, wearing a soul like _that_ as its skin?

 _This has gone too far. I will not wait anymore. I will no longer humour that boy’s ridiculous fears, not when they have cost me so very much._ He could not let himself be deterred by sympathy or sentimentality, now. It was too late for that. He had to act-

 _A child._ The thought pushed through, sudden and bracing, like a cold hand against feverish skin.

Keiji paused, one arm braced against the bloody tatami as he struggled to breathe. He could not recall how he had come to be on the floor. What had he been doing?

_He’s only a child-_

He clenched his fists, and found the sword in the grip of the right. He glanced at it, and clarity returned. _Ah, of course. That’s right…._ He remembered, rage streaming through his lungs. _I must act._ He tried to stand up, to set about cleaning up so that he could prepare to travel again-

 _No_ resounded in him, like a plea, a desperate denial. Black terror clenched in his chest, counterpoint to red fury, and he didn’t understand any of it. He had to get up, but

_No, no, no, no, **no** , I will **not**_

Horror lodged in his chest, in his throat, immovable. He struggled to breathe and couldn’t, he tried to move and couldn’t, he tried to fight and _–_

_– couldn’t._

_No,_ he thought again, despairingly, as the shadows slithered across his vision, sank vicious, thirsty roots into his soul-

And then the world went completely, horrifyingly dark.

**Author's Note:**

> At some point I'll make coherent notes for this but right now I am far too exhausted. Thanks for reading!


End file.
